


The Universe is Dead. The Universe is Dying. The Universe is Us.

by potatochip53



Category: Big Time Rush (Band), Big Time Rush (TV)
Genre: Again, Angst, Depression, Mental Breakdown, Sad, The only thing i can write are angsty one shots, Universe Analogies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 07:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12954627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatochip53/pseuds/potatochip53
Summary: Nobody ever thinks to ask the pretty boy. Oh yes, he can be arrogant and egotistical and sometimes downright irritating. That's just because he can hide it so well.





	The Universe is Dead. The Universe is Dying. The Universe is Us.

The rain is hammering down in sheets. It gathers into puddles and rebounds off of the pavement. It soaks James hair and clouds his vision. The lights are blurred as he runs through dark streets. Thunder booms and the rain thickens. There are sheets of it, pouring down. It's like the sky is crying. 

Car horns sound in the distance. The city is alive. Bustling with movement, even at the stroke of midnight. Billboards fly past in a blur of perfect bodies and long blonde hair. Buildings are lit up with light, tinges of purple and green from the swirl of dark clouds. James only runs faster.

He passes life. He passes love. A group of people out Christmas caroling, peppermint wafting around them. A family laughing as they run through the winding roads of over expensive stores and muddy sidewalks. James lucky Vans were colored brown with grunge from L.A’s streets.

He wasn't meant to be here. He didn't fit. He's just a boy from Minnesota. He wasn't Gustavo’s first pick. He isn't the face of Big Time Rush. James is just a face in the background. An extra voice that nobody notices. He never should've left Minnesota. Nobody would miss him. Just another face in the crowd. He could run through the streets forever, pouring rain soaking his clothes and racing down his face like tears. His hair was ruined. James didn't care. He never cared.

Why would James care about his hair? It was just another useless part of him. He would never be perfect. James was ugly. Just another person to be crumpled up and thrown out. His clothes. His hair. His facade. Who cares if it was ruined?  James tripped on a loose stone on a dark street on a back road in the slums of Los Angeles. He skidded across the water covered sidewalk and lay still. Rain pattered on his face, blurring his vision. The concrete was rocky and drove its sharp points through James jacket and into his back. There was a warm liquid rolling down one side of his face and tricking across his knees and arms.

James looked up, through the rain. There were stars in the sky. Glistening, full of light. Everybody considered James as the pretty boy. It was true, but James still knew things. He still understood. It was proven by scientists, years ago, that new atoms cannot be created. So, we are really all just parts of dead stars. Every atom in our body, was once part of a star, lying somewhere in the cosmos. Who knows what our atoms have seen? So many stars going supernova. World's creating life and killing it all the same. Right now, they saw how James could feel water covering his body. He could feel the newly ripped sleeve of his jacket and the grit that covered his recently exposed knees. He could feel the stinging sensation of water entering open wounds.

It was so surreal. Lying there, covered in mud and water and blood on a cracked sidewalk in L.A as rain hammered down while people laughed and danced and lived the Hollywood life in the background. Everything was moving too fast and then, suddenly, not fast enough. The air was stale with the scent of bitter smoke and old, acrid alcohol. It burned his nostrils but James breathed in anyway. The smell was awful, yes. But the burn. The burn reminded him of Minnesota. Of the constant cold and snow that burned his nose and turned his cheeks pink. Of the burning inhale and exhale while adrenaline rushed in the wake of a recent hockey game. It reminded him of how simple things used to be. When he was just a kid in high school who wanted to play hockey.

Now, James is in Los Angeles with his three best friends and they are all in a famous band. Hounded by paparazzi and crazed fans. Hardly any privacy. The flashes of cameras and stale hot air was too much. So James acted normal until he could run. Get away from the paparazzi and from his life for a little while. And now as James lay, limp and emotionally exhausted, on the cold hard ground. He can finally breathe, can finally think again.

So James does what he does best. He stands up, looking himself over, and fixes his hair. He combs it to the side with his fingers and splashes his Vans in a clear-ish looking puddle to clean them off. He grimaces at the ripped elbows of his jacket as he removes it, and ties it around his waist. There's nothing much to do for the jeans, except act like they were already ripped. James pulls down his sleeves to cover scratched elbows and tries to rinse most of the blood off his knees. And there James Diamond stood, put back together and in seemingly perfect form.

And so once James got back to the guys and Gustavo and Kelly, he smiled and acted like nothing was wrong, he just needed to fix his hair. When asked what happened to with his clothes and bruised knees, he fell on the wet concrete after slipping while checking his reflection in a puddle. When asked what took him so long, you can't rush perfection. The facade was back up again. Nobody ever got to see the real James Diamond. He was too broken. Too ugly and shy. Nobody would even want the real James Diamond.

Not one of the guys had ever seen the real James. He kept his feelings inside. His facade never cracked or wavered. He  held everything in until he was alone. Even as city lights danced across his feet and the only thing he wanted was to be understood. James Diamond is not just a pretty boy. He has feelings and doubts and insecurities like any other person. It's just that nobody knew that. They see a pretty face, not a nice personality. They see strong muscles, not a wavering smile.

Sometimes James really wishes that somebody would take notice and finally, finally understand. But he knows that that's a very slim chance. So for now, James is content to act and make everybody think he's happy, then pour out his heart to the stars and the alleyways in the slums where he's finally alone. Make no mistake, James doesn't plan on leaving just yet. He will most definitely fight. But every once in awhile, when he hits an all time low, James will sit and watch the stars. Watched the constellations form, counted the stars until he couldn't think anymore. Looking up into the sky, a whole universe at beck and call, and watching as life passed him by on a dull, dated world. Every atom in our body was once part of a star. Maybe he wouldn't be leaving. Maybe he'd be going home. Yeah. James would really like to go home. 


End file.
